


Make Love Not War, So They Say

by ozsia



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Awkwardness, Characters of Colour, Chrom is a dork, Culture, Don't Examine This Too Closely, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Religious Conflict, Some politics, War, Why does this bother me?, why aren't Ylisseans and Plegians properly defined?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 12:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozsia/pseuds/ozsia
Summary: ‘Chrom,’ Emm says and she looks devastated. ‘This document - it is for your hand in marriage, it…the Archbishop’s child is to be your consort. This would be irreversible, you…I must know you understand what you are agreeing to.’





	1. An Oath Sworn

_This can’t be happening._

‘I am so sorry, Chrom,’ his older sister utters from the head of the council table, her back straight but shoulders heavy from years of carrying the weight of the halidom. Her face is tight, strained from the situation as she stares at him, something broken about her eyes.

Chrom can only guess his own expression; he’s never been one for politics, he's too straightforward, candid - like their mother had been. ‘ _It’s not worth saying if you’re not ripping the words from your chest,’_ he can vaguely remember her saying with a crooked grin but dark eyes in retaliation of a chastisement she hadn’t thought she had earnt.

His heartbeat's echoing in his ears and numb as Chrom was, he barely has it in him to acknowledge her apology.

‘Milady - you cannot in all seriousness _actually_ be considering -’ another voice tries to reason; tries to save Chrom from the consequences of the the document Emm has in front of her, under her nose like it's beneath her, but still unable to touch it.

Emm’s eyes open from where they had clenched shut, turning sharply to pin Frederick with ice and all the pain that came from knowing what was awaiting Chrom, from _understanding,_ but not wanting to risk a war to stop it. They cannot be their father, they cannot send a death sentence to the lower townsfolk; to their most innocent of people, who would surely have to be drafted to stand a chance should the worst come to the worst.

Emm, just eight-years-old when their mother died and their father’s sanity snapped, had been instrumental to stopping the conflict their father started with their Eastern neighbours, but it was accomplished through regicide. It took years of planning and work so that when she was ten, Emm was exalt and their father was dead.

She's used to sacrificing things for what she believed to be the greater good.

‘Please, Frederick,’ Emmeryn murmurs softly but with steel that halted the wary knight from the tirade he no doubt was about to go into. ‘This is _not_ something I have wandered into willingly; these arrangements were agreed to long before I took the crown but it was also signed with the exalted seal.’

Something stamped with their seal meant that the royal family has sworn it to Naga; that they vowed the documents true and officiated their contents. Emm’s eyes are gleaming; sad and grim. ‘Our engagement has made me unable to fulfil them but someone within this house still has to, so what would you have me do?’ her question is marked with silence and Chrom can't bring himself to look at anyone. ‘I have promised myself to another, Lissa is still yet to become of-age and we must honour this.’

Frederick swallows and his gaze flickers to Chrom, frozen where he's sat, stiff with his stomach clenching as it attempts to squirm itself free from inside him. ‘Your Grace -’

‘Dear Frederick: stop,’ Emm orders and Frederick instantly quietens, his jaw locks from whatever tirade he would have otherwise gone into. ‘I would have been able to ignore this document and could have - ah, accidentally lost it, but with Archbishop Validar calling for our restitution and the King Gangrel backing this request…’

Emm trails off but there is a buzzing in Chrom’s ears that wasn’t there this morning as he tries to swallow back this overwhelming sickness down: it is a hot, thick sensation that he struggles not to urge around. He clenches his fists in his lap, allows his blunt nails to dig into the toughened skin of his palms to try and focus on the pain, rather than the mounting hurt and panic that was burning in his gut.

‘B-but!’ Lissa stutters as she sits forward, gripping hold of the table for dear life as she watches the proceedings with large, frightened eyes. ‘But Emm! Chrom can’t - not for _this_! Validar’s refused our peace talks too! This can’t -!’

‘We are at council, Princess,’ Emm interrupts sharply, as close to losing her temper that Chrom had seen in a long time. Their mother had had a short fuse but Emm grew up bathed in fire and raised with conflict: she's learnt to discipline her’s in a way that the rest of her siblings hadn’t. It's a reminder to Chrom that this is upsetting to her and he isn’t sure if that made this easier.

Lissa’s face shutters and a hard tilt to her chin shifts her disposition as she straightens, tension bristling her frame into something colder. ‘My opinion stands,’ she says finally with only a tremble in her voice giving her unstable emotions away, ‘Exalt,’ she adds if only to be petty.

Emm inclines her head in acknowledgement. ‘I understand this concern, it is not something I haven’t thought myself,’ she admits with her heavy stare resting on Chrom, ‘but we are duty bound. King Gangrel has been looking for an excuse to start further battle since he took the throne. With the last war, I cannot begrudge his anger.’

‘Your Grace,’ Lord Bernard gasps in outrage.

Emm raises a hand to halt the murmurs that whisper around the table. ‘A ruler to this throne, in Naga’s name, instigated a conflict on a neighbouring country that we had been peaceful with: our _sister land._ It was senseless murder on the command of a man who had lost his mind with grief. That the Plegian people still feel this hurt: this anger towards us is deserved, Lord Bernard. To deny such feelings is to deny our own responsibility and while that may enable us to sleep at night, it does not undo the atrocities committed.’

‘I do not want you to… _forget,_ the many Ylisseans that were, too, killed during the Blood Wars, Exalt Emmeryn,’ Lord Bernard says with his eyes to the table but a horrible red splattered across the cheeks. He's one of many apologists of the acts Ylisse wrought onto Plegia and Chrom couldn’t bare listening to it.

‘Oh, Lord Bernard, I cannot forget as I paid tribute to my people: I walked through the town streets with the grieving, I helped bury men and women and children. I gave sermons and speeches. I aided the rebuilding of Ylisstol. I was _there.’_ Emmeryn’s voice powers through that monologue and although her calm serenity isn’t present, her rage is just as steady as she stares one of her lords down. ‘But I also cannot forget my father’s order to march on an unsuspecting people, who had done nothing wrong. I cannot forget how our own streets were paved red with the blood of Grimleals. I cannot simply ignore how we invaded Plegian soil and then killed and pillaged and raped and burnt our way through their countryside, unprovoked.’

‘Exalt -’ the man tries to interrupt, intent to argue but Emm has heard it all before; they all had.

‘No, Lord Bernard,’ Emm says without a lick more patience to give Lord Bernard than to respond. ‘King Fridolin declared war on a group of people for no otherwise then one member of such blood was unable to save his wife.’

Chrom feels his eyes shut and senses Lissa mentally retreat as she always does when this is brought to attention. Exalt Lucille - their mother - died during childbirth. Her midwife, a woman of Plegian descent, who had aided with Chrom’s birth and Emm’s, was unable to stop the bleeding. Their mother was lost due to complications and Lissa almost past with her if it hadn’t of been for Ira’s quick actions.

She was Emm’s Nanny and had even taken care of Chrom, from what little he remembered about her but the life of Friodlin’s daughter was not enough to save the woman’s life. She had been executed for treason, in the city centre: something that would have made Marth, himself, weep but Fridolin was past sense; devoid of reason as his sanity slipped with grief.

‘Plegia retaliated, yes, you are quite right but do not forget _why_ ,’ Emm warned. ‘We are lucky that after killing their former Archbishop and King both, that Plegia has been so forgiving with us. On a purely self-serving issue, our army has long since been depleted and I cannot be seen recruiting anymore to our force: we are in a perilous position to incoming attack.’

They used to have open boarders with Plegia, truly allied. Many biracial children were born and mixed families lived happily on Ylissean land. Fridolin's first attack were against these people. Normal townsfolk; everyday people. Many of the "half-breeds" were imprisoned. Chrom can still remember their screams.  

‘But this arrangement, Your Grace…’ Lord Althalos, Maribelle’s father begins but is unable to finish his rejection. It's rare for the man to waste even a breath so Chrom almost felt honoured that the man had done exactly that with a whole sentence.

Emm inhales quietly and seems to centre herself while the alermen stay silent, ready for her to speak. ‘Please understand this when I say to you: I do not have goodwill to bargain with,’ she states with brevity, ‘Plegia is demanding we uphold a sworn commitment. They may be doing it with…nefarious intentions, but we are not in a position to contest this, not without risk of restarting a conflict we cannot hope to engage with. I listen to your protests; I take them to heart and I see the risk, however -’

‘I’ll do it.’

Chrom does not, for a second, recognise his own voice or even register that he spoke until every eye is again looking at him. His heart beats like it is engaged in a battle unto itself and his nausea increases but he forces himself to look at his sister’s stilted expression. ‘I agree, we can’t risk another war. If - if my agreement can prevent anymore bloodshed then…’

‘Chrom,’ Emm says and Chrom knows that if they were alone; if it were just himself and his older sister, that she would allow herself to reach out to him, to try and comfort him. As it is, she simply looks devastated. ‘This document - it is for your hand in marriage, it…the Archbishop’s child is to be your consort. This would be irreversible, you…I must know you understand what you are agreeing to.’

Chrom’s vision is palpitating with the force of his heart, body thrumming with stress, and his ears are banging along with the tightness in his chest as he nods. His neck creaks from the stiffness to it, but that’s ignored with everything else. ‘I understand,’ he replies and people graciously ignore how is voice breaks.

‘Chrom -’

Emm wasn’t able to refuse Plegia this, they could not, but Chrom wasn’t about to make his sister force her own brother into accepting a document like this: he would agree for that alone, to save her from that choice.

‘I said I agree, Emm.’ Chrom couldn’t get very many other words out than that, making himself remain sitting at the table is hard enough. This was about duty and however much he felt more like a fool than a prince, didn’t mean he wasn’t one.

Emm’s eyes are starting to shimmer even if she’s keeping it together like the ruler she is. Lissa has started to cry with her face buried in her hands. ‘Chrom -’

Chrom’s feels heavy and he’s starting to sense the impending need to lay down, but he keeps himself planted in his seat. ‘For Ylisse, for Plegia, I -’ his voice wobbles and suddenly Chrom feels like a little boy all over again, who didn’t understand the what dead bodies were yet, or the cries of prisoners or the smell of bodies. He's done his part since then in forming the Shepherds and training their fighters, but Chrom also knew his efforts were shallow in comparison to what their world so desperately needs.

‘I said I agree,’ Chrom repeats.

Emm’s lips tighten in that way that speaks volumes of her upset even if she refuses to shatter. She had been holding it together so long, Chrom thinks that if she stopped Emm would simply fall apart and there’d be no fixing her.

‘Robin Caeronvar,’ Emm finally says as she folds her hands in front of her with an edginess that is very rare. Her knuckles are white.

Chrom blinks as the words don’t quite sink in. ‘Huh?’

Emm’s shoulders flex, another sign of stress that Chrom's had to learn and pick up on. Emm has few tells, she's too good for that. ‘…Archbishop Validar’s -’

Chrom’s stomach flops and without his consent he's stood, wooden chair skidding out from underneath him. He can vaguely feel his hand jump into Falchion’s hilt as they both tremble at his sides. ‘I - right, of course. Robin. Foreign? Oh…but then it would be, wouldn’t it?’

‘Chrom -’ Emm tries again to reach out, as she too rises from her seat.

‘So, you don’t me to finalise the details for this. I can leave this to you while I - attend to my Shepherds,’ Chrom rushes to say, hates his habit of rambling under pressure as he all but trips over his own feet to get out of the room. ‘Excuse me.’


	2. Announcing the Plegian Party

Chrom’s heart is a trapped bird in the prison of his ribcage. His legs felt weak, like any second his knees would buckle and give way as he stood in the throne room, ready to receive their Plegian…guests. Frederick had long journeyed to Ylisstol’s gate to guide them back to the castle. The waiting hasn’t gotten any easier even months later from when Emm had written back to Plegia’s demand with their agreements. 

Now the Plegia convoy should be here and Chrom feels sick. He's had time to try and come to terms to a political marriage and Chrom has pulled himself together since, but it isn’t enough to aid the sudden nausea or the trembling. The anxiety has flooded his system once he’d woken up this morning and realised that today was the day, and now he's drowning. 

‘…you look very handsome, Chrom,’ Emm murmurs with an encouraging smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes, no matter how much she tries to lighten her expression. She has abandoned her Sage robes today and she looks beautiful, as she sits in the exalted throne. There wasn’t a hair out of place and yet she didn’t _feel_ like herself.

‘Thanks, Emm,’ Chrom manages, too distracted to be embarrassed and too numb for it to impact his lack of confidence. He's in some of his more formal clothing, Ylissean blue and stiff as wyvern leather. It felt like he was wearing someone else’s skin, someone who Chrom really didn’t want to be.

Lissa remains silent and solemn, sat in her throne just off the dais, looking to the side and slouching back into her cushion. She hasn’t spoken much to either of them since Chrom ran out of that initial meeting, and he’s been living out of his head so heavily that he couldn’t bring himself to instigate what would mostly be an argument. Lissa would come around eventually, she always did.

There's a knock at the door to which Emm answers with nary a wobble. They open, Frederick dead and centre. Chrom’s vision snaps to him even if his stomach has just left him, and starts to wonder if it's time to contemplate jumping out of one of the window. He may survive the fall if he made it to the branches of the trees underneath.

‘Announcing: Archbishop Validar, Lord Robin son of Validar, son of Hela, and escorts,’ Frederick proclaims, tone clear but hard. Something's upset the man and he's paler than what he had been before he’d set off. 

Chrom doesn’t have to consider it for long before Frederick is stepping to the side, to allow the Plegian party to pass uninhibited. He spots what it must have been to put that restrained look on Frederick’s face. Archbishop Validar walks ahead and Chrom finds that he instantly dislikes the look of the man. His skin was almost as dark as his hair; an unnatural colour that told of an abuse of dark magics, his face pointed and full of sharp edges with a trim moustache and beard. But it was his eyes, his taloned nails and the way he carried himself that whispered of something sinister. 

His party walked in a single file line and only spread out once Archbishop Validar had stopped at the dais with a woman close behind, she has a tattooed face, white hair with tan skin and the clothing of a wyvern rider but there's something distinctly false about her too.

Just a bit further and with two escorts on either shoulder is a man in literal chains. Chrom’s focus zeroes in on his state, the revealing nature of the man’s outfit, the veil covering the lower half of his face and the rounded nature of his shoulders. Chrom saw little else as his stomach rolls.

‘Exalt Emmeryn, Princess Lissa and…Prince Chrom,’ Archbishop greets in a calculating, creeping voice. He bows minimally, eyes sharp and gaze steady. Chrom can’t even acknowledge it as he stares at brown hands and wrists that were tied together with gold manacles. 

‘You honour us with your presence,’ Emm returns though it's Chrom’s job in this circumstance. He's faltered and Emm cannot leave the silence until Chrom finds it within himself to break it. ‘…forgive us, but we had been under the impression that Plegia had outlawed slavery years ago,’ Emm says leading, but tentatively.

They were in fact _certain_ of that. There were still problems with halidom to the West, but not close. Not here.

‘Slavery,’ Validar begins to laugh, high and almost deranged, as he looks to one of the woman Chrom had presumed to be a wyvern rider. ‘Did you hear that?’ 

‘Yes, Father.’ The woman’s painted lips curl into a smile but she does and says little else. 

‘My, my.’ Validar sighs. ‘With the past close nature of our two countries I’d assumed you’d understand our culture, Exalt Emmeryn. This is disappointing. Disappointing indeed -’

Chrom can’t take anymore of Validates mock-musings, nor the falsity in his voice. When ruby eyes glanced up from beneath the shield of thick eyelashes, Chrom lost the thoughts restraining him. Falchion's out of its sheath and in his hand before Chrom could tell himself how much of an _idiot_ he is. 

He jumps off of the dais, barely hears Emm choking around his name as Chrom swings his blade through the chains tying this man together. Through the strike the man did not move an inch though the two by his side had pulled tomes from out of their cloaks, he’d stayed still and watchful. 

The man raises both arms experimentally in the sudden silence of the throne room. The jingle of the chain is deafening. Chrom can’t bring himself to care. He offers his free hand to the man, ‘here,’ he says quietly, doubts anyone else can hear it, and ignores the thumping rhythm of his heart. ‘I can remove the bracelets.’ 

The man tilts his head in what may have been consideration, before he's placing his wrist in Chrom’s care. Chrom is not gentle, he breaks dinner plates and practice dummies and castle walls entirely on accident. Falchion, itself can cut through near anything with the right person wielding it, otherwise it is a dull blade without use. It is not dull in his hands.

_Careful,_ he tells himself as he slides his fingers in-between thin wrists and the thick, weighted metal as he lightly turns the cuffs so that the clasp is facing him. Cautiously, Chrom eases Falchion’s tip into the pin and pulls until the metal gives way. It falls unaided to the ground with a loud _thunk, clang_ as it rattles from the carpeted runner to the stone flooring. He repeats with the other wrist. 

Chrom is sheathing Falchion back into its scabbard attached to his belt, when he flinches back from dark hands reaching for him in his periphery. The man’s eyes are smiling, for a lack of a better way to describe them, having warmth the other’s in his party lack. Chrom trusts like he had, when Chrom had been wielding Falchion like a manic, and allows the hands to clasp either side of his face, and gently pull Chrom to him. 

The man leans up so that their foreheads meet. ‘Dhanyavadah,’ he whispers near silently before separating them and stepping back in line with the others of his group.

‘I -’

‘It seems,’ Validar bites out. Chrom jolts as his gaze jumps to the archbishop. ‘That although you’ve stayed quite ignorant of Plegian culture, you’ve managed to pass the first half of the first trial. _Congratulations_ …Prince Chrom.’ 

‘We must sincerely apologise again,’ Emm cuts in when Chrom’s voice yet again fails him. ‘What trials do you speak of?’

Validar’s smile that he directs towards Emm is wicked. ‘Plegian courtship trials, of course. The first test is to symbolise respect. The two in contemplation for partnership would bind themselves and then cut those ties off of each other. It is to represent the freedom that the relationship is meant to bring, and a promise, of sorts, to never burden or tie each other down.’ 

Chrom colours as he absorbs this and glances at - ‘Robin Caeronvar,’ he breathes as he looks back to red eyes. They are of similar height but Robin's slimmer than he is, having more of a Mage's physique. Robin has messy white hair and tan skin, typical Plegian colours.

‘Who else would he be?’ Validar says in askance, but his smirk speaks a thousand words. ‘It is a great insult to the families involved for one of the partnership to fail the trials. And it seems that you do not even know of the trials of which I speak, never mind your lack of bindings, Prince Chrom. In our writings we were promised you would be prepared.’ 

Chrom’s cheeks are burning fire, shame and embarrassment warring for which is more powerful in him. Robin Caeronvar could be nothing but a man and while relationships of that nature were not unlawful, planning on for nobility was an insult in Ylisse. Chrom should have asked more questions of Emm while he was able. Now he's frozen, like an idiot statue, staring at a man in robes a Dark Mage would blush at. Chrom's achingly, terribly unchained arms start to tense. 

‘So participation in these trials is equal?’ Emm asks steadily but her tone was way off. She ignores Validar's comments on their communications. Chrom hadn't been involved in that but he can guess that Validar had employed some severe double speak to talk around these trials, over wise Emm would have had prepped him for them. 

‘That is the nature of healthy relationships, is it not?’ Validar asks like that is the message he is trying to send.

Robin’s eyes meet Chrom's again and, like he's mirroring Chrom from earlier, he lifts his arm, palm face-up between them. He does not speak but Chrom weakly gives the man his hand. He's still wondering the wisdom of this when Robin removes Chrom’s glove before he drops it to the ground, where it falls near to the broken pieces of metal littering the place. Then, he is gesturing for the next.

Validar’s startled expression would be humous in any other situation.

When Chrom’s other glove hits the floor and he is left standing there, gloveless, like the fool he is, one of the escorts begins to laugh. ‘Nya ha ha. Seems like trial one’s been complete. How _Caw-some.’_

Chrom blinks, idly wondering if he's still asleep as Validar starts to splutter. ‘That cannot possibly -’

‘Now, Archbishop Validar,’ Emm chides like she wasn’t enjoying Validar’s reaction. ‘You, _yourself_ said the the trials are equal and both in consideration for partnership have unbound each other.’

A sneer flashes across Validar’s face and Chrom thinks, _ah, there he is,_ before it is gone and an awful smile is in its place. ‘Yes, that seems to be the case.’ 

Chrom shifts awkwardly, cannot for the life of him find his footing as Robin gazes steadily at him. ‘Ah, it’s nice to meet you,’ he says and has to stifle a wince when Robin gives a near invisible shake of his head, his eyes flickering towards Validar in warning. 

‘Nya, it’s nice to meet Ylisse’s princeling too!’ one of the escorts steps in, slapping an almost excited hand onto Robin’s shoulder. ‘I’m Henry and the witch next to me is Tharja. Be nice to her, she’ll hex ya. We’re -’

‘Lord Robin’s attendants,’ Tharja cuts in, voice mellow but she is glaring out from underneath her fringe. ‘And I _will_ hex you.’ 

‘….right.’ Chrom can’t help the hopeless glance he throws Emm, who is holding onto her composure by a thread.

‘Perhaps we should adjourn for now?’ Emm suggests, ‘allow Prince Chrom and Lord Robin to properly introduce each other while we make agreeable the details.’ 

Validar inclines his head. ‘Of course, but Robin’s attendants will have to go with them.’ 

‘…do you trust us so little with your son?’ Emm enquires but her voice cools.

‘Nothing of the sort!’ Validar holds up his hands, ‘we both understand that should anything happen to Robin while he stays in Naga’s own hospitality, than…well, we could not be blamed for the populace if they raged war with the loss of their hierophant, now could we?’ 

Emm ignores the threat with practised ease. ‘….Then, why do his attendants…?’ 

‘It really is a shame you understand so little of Plegia.’ The way Validar tsks makes Chrom feel like an errant child. ‘How else would they communicate? As according to the trials, they may not speak directly to each other until conditions have been met.’ 

‘I see,’ Emm states but she sounds far more frigid than she did at the beginning which is saying something. ‘And what are the conditions?’ 

‘I really couldn’t say,’ Validar responds. ‘Now, by your leave, Prince Chrom.’ 

Chrom swallows. ‘Good day, Archbishop,’ he answers in turn and with one last look at Emm, redirects to Robin. Chrom gestures for the man to walk ahead but a dark hand merely grasps hold of Chrom’s wrist and makes him fall into step with him as Robin’s attendants take one side of them, trailing just a step or so behind. 

Chrom tries very hard not to feel surrounded. 

Robin mutters something in Plegian to Tharja as they pass Frederick, who opens the door for them. ‘Will you give us a tour? I’ve read a lot about Ylisse and I’m interested to see it,’ Tharja reluctantly says. 

Chrom blinks and turns to her. ‘What?’ 

Again, Robin speaks in Plegian to Tharja and she repeats. 

Oh. 

So, ‘that’s no problem,’ Chrom replies as he glances from Tharja to Robin but tries to direct his words to the former. ‘I can take you around the castle and show you the courtyard.’ 

Robin speaks and Chrom tries to listen attentively to the man’s voice, however nonsensical the words may be to him.

‘Lead on,’ Tharja translates with an intonation that is more threatening. 

So Chrom does.


	3. To Breathe

It does not take Chrom very long to learn that his intended is an intellectual. Even without the man uttering a word of Ylissean - and instead stuck strictly to Plegian, the syntax Tharja conveyed is weighty and almost poetic. Different to Miriel, who sounds like she’d swallowed a dictionary and with an almost frigid way thinking. Robin sounds - fluid. 

His questions ranged from the castle’s occupancy, to their living conditions. Recent harvests and the farming villages, to emergency measures. Robin seemed genuinely interested in the Ylisse and although a Prince, Chrom felt ill-prepared to keep up with the enquiries. He must have noticed a few of Chrom’s less than knowledgeable responses too, but there has been little push back for this, no derision, only quiet acceptance before conversation was moved on by an increasing irritated Tharja. 

Chrom isn’t sure how to direct their talk either, perhaps ask a few questions about Plegia but he worries about sounding ignorant even if him knowing little about them would be expected. Plegia has had its borders shut to them since the Blood Wars, when Chrom had still been a boy. Lessons of their sister land stopped with Emm, who could speak broken Plegian but couldn’t read at all.He doubts a wedding can fix what's been torn apart, could minimise the divide that's been created between them, but there's hope stirring in Chrom; for better. 

Not being able to direct any dialogue to Robin was trying, though. How is Chrom meant to get to know this man if every word he spoke needed to be said through another? He didn't understand the point of this trial other than to hinder any attempt of them communicating. Chrom knew Robin could at the very least understand Ylissean asTharja never needed to translate anything Chrom spoke.

It made the situation easier, if only because Chrom didn’t have to worry about being misinterpreted, even if introducing the Plegian entourage to Sumia when he’d led them to the stables was - awkward. She startled, of course - tripped over her shoes and even if she’d been quick to right herself, Chrom winced to himself as he hurried to check she’d not hurt herself.

‘I'm fine, Captain. They -’ she coughed suddenly as her nervous eyes flickered over to the Plegian party observing over his shoulder. ‘I was startled. I’m sorry.’ 

‘Don’t worry.’ Chrom smiles, hates that she looked so contrite as he steps back, opening up the two groups to each other. ‘Sumia, may I introduce my - intended, Robin Caeronvar and his attendants: Tharja and Henry.’ 

Sumia is from a minor nobel family and curtsies at them despite her anxiety, and her befuddlement at who Chrom had pointed was Robin. He wouldn't be what they expected when Chrom had informed his men on Frederick’s good judgement, however hard it'd been. Hopefully now that Sumia knew should could inform the other's to temper reactions.

‘It’s very nice to meet you all,’ Sumia says kindly, with all of her gentle spirit shining through as she addresses them.

‘Namaste.’ Robin seems to smile as his eyes crinkle around the edges, his greeting unneeded of translating as common as it is as a greeting. His left hand cups his chest as he offers his branded hand towards Sumia - poor Sumia,who looks very lost at the gesture. 

‘Take his hand,’ Tharja grumbles and Sumia is quick to obey, all but jumps to close the distance between them to return Robin’s offer. Chrom watches in curiosity mostly as Robin manoeuvres their hands, a merging of dark and light, until their palms are resting against one another, fingertips pointing upwards.

Robin pats his chest meaningfully and repeats: ‘Namaste’.

Sumia blinks before she seems to catch on and fumbles to copy him, pressing her own free hand to her blouse. ‘N-Namaste,’ she stutters hurriedly.

Robin’s eyes softens from something less cursory into warmth and light as he easily steps back. He does not put a dent in the shadows that are Tharja, who is scowling though. ‘That was a traditional Plegian greeting,’ she states and ignores Robin’s quiet words to her. ‘If you philistines want this _arrangement_ to make a difference, you might want to learn something about the culture you want to tie the knot with.’

Chrom flushes hot and he doesn’t need to hear Sumia’s embarrassed apologises to know she is mortified. ‘There was no offence meant,’ Chrom attempts to soothe even if his stomach is squirming. ‘Plegian’s seclusion and the - war, stopped a lot of tutors -’

‘Nya ha - I wonder what language we’re speaking?’ Henry asks with a smile that cuts through the lower half of his face. It felt cold, like the edge of a blade; dangerous once it's pointed to you. He's quieter than Tharja is, and Chrom isn’t sure if that wasn’t because Tharja had been chosen as “Translator”, or if he simply spoke less.

‘Henry.’ Robin’s voice his stern and his eyebrows are frowning.

‘A wise word, Princeling,’ Tharja says through a glower and thoroughly ignoring their lord. ‘Your excuses are the wind. We can speak your language, and we learnt your cultural eccentricities -’

_‘Tharja,’_ Robin interrupts, eyes narrowed as they peer at her in a way that demands attention. His next words are unintelligible to Chrom, who both wants to understand what's being said and was also desperate to disappear. 

Her response is equally foreign when she finally readdresses Robin but whatever argument was stirring, Robin is quick to stop it. He talks over her, calm in a way Emm is, firm like Frederick would be. He demands her attention, for her to listen and she does.

Chrom doesn’t quite notice when Tharja takes a step back from Robin, but he does when she speaks to him again. ‘I apologise,’ she says to him at Robin’s prompting. Her voice isn’t half as sincere as the emotion Robin is projecting but it's enough. ‘There is a lot of hurt that while your Exalt hasn’t been able to address, still lingers. The fact that our counties were once allied exasperates the issue…and also the expectation.’ 

Chrom finds himself staring at the genuine feeling in Robin’s eyes, when Robin begins to speak again Chrom finds himself patient for the translation. ‘I imagine you see this union as nothing more than a punishment,’ Tharja continues, her gaze on her lord rather than to stare longer at Chrom. ‘I know this. I was not given much choice in coming to Ylisse, either. Our differences will become more prevalent the more we speak, but I would like to think that we have things in common, if not - that we can do this right, regardless.’ 

The lump that had grown in Chrom’s throat is hard as he tries to clear it. ‘The stables,’ he chokes out around the blockage, ‘is prized in Ylisse from the work Emm has done in training our pegasus knights. But - I would think you would enjoy our library, more? You sound like you like to read.’ 

The Plegians blink at him and Chrom finds himself wincing. ‘I am not there often myself.’ Robin had reached out to him but Chrom wasn’t one for words, wasn’t any good with them at all. ‘But…is it something you would enjoy?’ No matter the tutor nor how many council meetings he's dragged to, he's never been taught how to establish himself verbally. He was too straightforward, too crass. Chrom has to rely on action. 

The surprise in Robin’s face settles into something gentle, and Chrom can like he is smiling under that veil. ‘Yes, I would like that.’ Tharja’s delivery is drier than the one she is copying but Chrom relaxes at the response. ‘However, I believe you were going to lead us to the castle courtyard? There is more to see outside and no rush. Please, take your time. Ylisse is beautiful and I would like to know your birthplace.’

Chrom can feel his cheeks grow warm, imagines his colour as Sumia titters close to his side. ‘I -’ Chrom stutters to a halt before he takes a breath. ‘And I would like to share it with you.’ 

Robin nods decisively and dips his chin in a goodbye to Sumia, murmurs something that Tharja translates to “see you again”. Sumia quickly curtsies, almost falls over herself to get there in time before the Plegian party are turning to leave. 

Robin takes Chrom’s hand in his again and Chrom stumbles as he is pulled forward. ‘See you some time in the morrow, Captain,’ Sumia calls after him as his mind remembers that he has training with the Shepherds, that his duty is ever lasting even with other responsibilities. It's just fortunate that activities were cancelled for the day.

‘If you are preoccupied -’ Tharja begins for Robin and Chrom snaps out of his distraction, finding his feet in their pace. 

‘I do not know how much you’ve heard but I run a militia, called the Shepherds,’ Chrom says while pretending he hasn’t just interrupted a dark mage. ‘If you are not indisposed tomorrow, you could meet them. They’re of a small number but they’re sworn to protect our people.’ 

This information gains him Henry’s attention; the attendant that has shown Chrom the least aggression and yet, it is more disturbing than Tharja’s open animosity. ‘Sumia?’ Robin prompts, seemingly ignorant of Henry’s open eyes glinting through Chrom’s skin.

‘Ah, yes,’ Chrom hurries to respond. ‘She's with the Pegasus Knights for awhile before we porched her. I… greetings aside, she’s a good women. I - I hope that you can put aside our ignorance to see that.’

Tharja’s snort is swallowed by Robin’s smooth reply. ‘As long as you can return the favour.’ Robin’s eyes address his as Chrom leads them away from the stables. He can appreciate that level of directness and thinks that although Validar makes his skin crawl, Robin could be of a good sort.

‘Ah…you seem - well educated,’ Chrom states and then grimaces. ‘What I mean to say -’

‘I am rather imperfect,’ Robin interrupts through Tharja, face ever soft. There is a kindness to that expression, even if Chrom could only see half of it. ‘I regret that you will end up forgiving me a great many things.’ 

Chrom flexes his toes in his shoes but tries to keep the rest of himself calm. ‘That is nice of you to say - er,’ he falters, ‘I apologise, but…I should probably ask how I should address you.’

‘Nya hah ha.’ Henry laughs, seemingly laid-back and untroubled. ‘There’s a trial for that -’

‘Robin,’ Robin says. Another thing that Chrom does not need translating, something else that lessens the borders separating them as people. He continues in Plegian and Tharja takes over. ‘In Plegia we have two names, one address for the public, typically of foreign origin, and one we gift to others. Henry is right, I cannot give you my soul name yet, but I would like…’

Tharja is brought to a stop as soon as Robin hesitates, and Chrom’s confusion over this two-name business is pushed back. ‘Chrom,’ he offers into the silence, ‘if…you would allow me, I have no other name to safeguard but you are welcome to the only one provided me.’

‘Chrom,’ Robin says, like he is tasting the word. ‘Although our titles are what brought us to this day, we are both also men…I care little for this authority here, with you,’ Tharja’s voice shares though she looks awkward translating this. 

‘I promise not to refer to you as a hierophant.’ Chrom attempts a grin and cannot help but breathe a little easier at the way this was going. He's going to get married to this man, to have to use a title would have been extremely difficult, ‘if you do not call me a prince.’

Something…mischievous glints about red irises, it vaguely reminds Chrom of Lissa with her pranks and her jokes. Maybe she’ll end up liking Robin, though if they did create a comradeship on tormenting him it might not be worth it.‘But you suit your title so well.’

Chrom can’t help but snort and almost tenses at the inappropriateness. The mood doesn’t shift though, and they had both been nearly outrightly stating intentions since before they’d left the stables, so: ‘I doubt you’ll be saying that for long.’

Robin huffs a laugh. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Tharja translates with even further reluctance, disapproval lining her face as she stares at Robin. Chrom wonders from what Robin has hinted at, how this betrothal was brought to his attention.

Still, with the current light atmosphere and with what he has learnt thus far, Chrom feels brave enough to smile. His gloveless hands flex. ‘And I,’ he agrees while hoping it not to be a lie. 

**Author's Note:**

> Things to remember: Plegia is a theocracy which means they are a country ruled by their church: the archbishop is of higher standing then the king, ruling in the name of Grima. (This will probably be important later on, I dunno.) This is quite different from Ylissean who I imagine functions more like England's royal family did back in the day, e.g. "God (Naga) has given us power so we are in charge" with the church holding sway but nothing more. 
> 
> Alermen are a elected council, though in Ylissean this is based more upon landowners etc. 
> 
> At one point Emmeryn refers to Plegians as "Grimleal" and she didn't mean that offensively. More about Grima and religion coming up.
> 
> On Emmeryn, well, I'm not sure how to write her. In the game you know she's a gentle, pacifist whose idealism gets her killed. She's not very fleshed out and she had the potential to be a far more interesting character with how she came into power, at such a young age and with the type of conflict she faced. With this story I really want to ground her because although she has plenty of good traits, that also comes with plenty of flaws. 
> 
> Annnd I think that's it, I hope you enjoyed this brief introduction. This is an old story that has taken me forever to finally complete and then post so this might be a bit rushed but, yeah, I sort of just really wanted to finish it. (because otherwise it'll be sat in my docs forever and just sort of fade into all my other files. It happens, seriously. I have things unfinished since 2012.)


End file.
